A Prose Poem: Talking the Language of Edward Gorey, for August 21 2025 Jill

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jill stockinger

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Aug 19, 2025, 11:20:04 AM8/19/25

to Rennaissance writing Group, Nelson, Curt, pattis...@comcast.net, RSW Jerry Roth, Celia Mccauley, Karen Arenson, Kaolin Fire, Max Stockinger, Robert L. Smith, Kim Knighton, Kathleen Kauffroath

This is my piece for discussion on Thursday, August 21, 2025.

I was inspired to write it while I was reading FROM TED TO TOM, THE ILLUSTRATED ENVELOPES OF EDWARD GOREY.

With a big Thank You to my sister Karen for having given me the book as a present. I found it Absolutely Delightful, in an Edward Gorey sort of way!

Jill Stockinger

Talking the Language of Edward Gorey,
or,
The Foreshadowing of Something Terrible
but It Is Probably Just a Trifle

It is a rather disappearing day, the kind that starts in fog and expands into the dull gray sameness of heavy rain and drips into an all-enveloping blackness of night with occasional loud knocking noises, like workmen and perhaps some women, too, are busy taking things apart
behind a very stiff large curtain that muffles sound and distance to a certain but never complete extent. A day that shares a passing resemblance to a flimsy wet tissue that is disintegrating under the carpet. At those times, I wonder who I am. We arrive on earth with no
explanation given. Even a footnote would help.

In this life, people are standing on different rocks and shores around me with large signs saying “Danger” and “Keep Away,” but no one is holding a sign saying “Welcome” or “THIS IS THE PLACE YOU HAVE BEEN LOOKING FOR.” On one island, I see a girl with small
hands waving a teeny-tiny sign and I think it says, “Help Wanted.” There is a small something, perhaps a dog or an octopus, standing at her side; it is hard to tell the difference from where I am sitting. I feel sure there are terrible dangers lurking all around. It is likely I will end
up in a place I will regret. I remain wary. I am hopeful at times, but not on a day like this. There are hints of fall, or possibly failure, circling around this stuffy room. Stuffy because it is stuffed with objects and my thoughts and that strange smell. Maybe the drains are going bad.

In an imaginary life, I am much happier, doing god knows what. I am guessing there is a beach close by with soft sand. Perhaps my name is Chartreuse or Grenadine. Maybe I am a horse, pawing at the waves in a friendly manner. Galloping carefree with the others through days
of gold and silver nights and lots of golden apples.